XX. O Scotia my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. XXI. O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert: But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. I. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spy'd a man, whose aged step II. Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou? Began the rev'rend sage; Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn III. The sun that overhangs yon moors, I've seen yon weary winter-sun That man was made to mourn. IV. O man! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force gives nature's law, V. Look not alone on youthful prime, But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, Oh! ill-match'd pair! Show man was made to mourn. VI. A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest; Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, Oh! what crowds in ev'ry land, Thro' weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn. VII. Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwoven with our frame! |